


When the Time is Right

by billiethepoet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Come play, First Time, M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billiethepoet/pseuds/billiethepoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John follows Sherlock into retirement but they have one more great adventure to conquer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Time is Right

Sherlock takes his retirement earlier than anyone expected. Just a year or so after Lestrade leaves the Met, Sherlock purchases a cottage in Sussex and quits London without a backwards glance. Mrs. Hudson has been dead and buried for many years, Mary passed away unexpectedly not long after Mrs. Hudson, and John insists on living in the northern suburbs while Gloria ( _“You’re giving your daughter GSW as initials? Gun shot wound? Really John?” “Gloria Scott Watson. For her mother, and for you, you giant git.”_ ) finishes her A levels and prepares for university. DCI Sally Donovan would have kept passing him the most interesting of cases, but Scotland Yard has changed, and so has Sherlock Holmes. The drive to prove himself clever by showing how stupid everyone else is has dulled over time. He’s only 55, but he has a whole second life on the Downs with his bees waiting for him.

John comes to visit within a few weeks of Sherlock’s move. He spends a long weekend unpacking the boxes Sherlock deemed non-essential and reorganizing the kitchen cupboards. Sherlock trudges down from his bedroom, wrapped in a thick flannel dressing gown ( _a Christmas gift from Gloria when she was a girl, the first she picked out for him on her own_ ), on a cold Monday morning to find John standing in front of the large living room window overlooking the muted green of the Downs in winter. John’s bare feet curl into the edge of an old oriental rug and he’s wearing that ridiculous oatmeal colored jumper. It’s not the same jumper of course, but it’s near enough that it brings Sherlock back to those early days at Baker Street where nothing could touch them and they had nothing but time ahead of them. 

“It’s beautiful here, Sherlock. Really beautiful,” John murmurs without looking away from the window. 

The early morning light catches in John’s hair and make it seem more gold than grey for the first time in years. Sherlock swallows past the lump in his throat and remembers all the times he stood at the window of 221b and watched John walk away. “You could stay.” It’s out of his mouth before he realizes he was going to say it. But of course that’s always been the plan, at least in Sherlock’s mind. 

“What?” John does turn away from the window this time and his thumbs rub across the side of his clenched fists. 

“The second bedroom. It could be yours. I don’t use it. Only for visitors and you’re likely to be my only visitor anyway.” There’s a brief spike of hope in Sherlock’s chest. He could have John back. Have him here every morning and every evening. It wouldn’t be Baker Street but he’d be here and there would be bees and Gloria would come on holidays. 

John looks at him, shocked but smiling, for a few moments and Sherlock can barely breathe. “After Gloria goes to uni, yeah? Once she’s settled, I’ll move out here.” 

Sherlock feels the wide pull of his own cheeks before he realizes that he’s smiling back at John. He won’t tell John that he’s retiring too. Sherlock’s going to buy him a large, wide desk with the best tablet computer and old style keyboard that will click and clack while John writes his ridiculous stories. John can just write and take care of Sherlock and he won’t have to have a real job. Sherlock won’t tell him that yet; they can have that fight later. 

John keeps his word and is on Sherlock’s ( _their_ ) doorstep with his well-worn military duffle tossed over one shoulder. Gloria helps him carry a trunk upstairs. She shifts the skull and random papers around on the mantle to make room for framed pictures of Mary and the four of them together at the British Museum on her 12th birthday. Sherlock kisses the top of her head when she says goodbye. John drives her to the train station and sends her back to school ( _“RADA, Sherlock! She’s going to be an actress. Christ, she must have gotten that from you and Mary because I never had much of a poker face.”_ ). 

The house is quiet that night but feels so much more alive simply because John Watson is breathing inside it. Sherlock plays the violin for hours after John goes to bed and it feels like a dream. 

John doesn’t take to country life as easily as Sherlock did. He grouses a bit when Sherlock tells him he is now a retired doctor turned author instead of just a doctor with a pointless habit of scribbling in an old blog, but he doesn’t try to look for a full time job either. He clacks away at his keys for a few hours a day, talks to Gloria, and watches Sherlock tend to the bees. 

It takes a few months, much longer than it would have when they were younger men, but he can see John growing irritable and frustrated. John starts taking long walks in the early afternoon. That seems to work for a while but eventually John starts coming home just as restless as when he left. 

Sherlock thinks, very briefly, of reading one of the few emails sent by prospective clients languishing in his inbox. He used to delete them immediately, and without reading them, but lately he can’t even be bothered to do that. They could try a case every few months to keep John from going mad with idleness in his new life. Sherlock glances through them but the effort of separating the wheat from the chaff feels like too much. 

John’s agitation rises until he’s pacing the cottage floor, practically vibrating with pent up energy. He clenches and unclenches his fists and rolls his shoulders, looking very much like a man spoiling for a fight. 

“I just need something to do.” 

“You could make me tea.” Sherlock doesn’t expect that to work but it’s always worth a shot. 

“No,” John scowls. “I need something useful, something productive to do before I go crazy.” 

“You mean you need something dangerous to do.” 

“No. I meant what I said. I don’t need danger, just something worthwhile. Maybe even exciting. I’m not so old and toothless that I couldn’t have a bit of an adventure from time to time. Just something to get the blood pumping through my veins.” 

Sherlock rises from his desk, sending a couple of nature journals skittering from his lap to the floor, and stalks slowly over to John. John freezes, years of waiting for Sherlock to take the lead and to point him to whatever path he’s supposed to go barreling down taking hold. The metal band Sherlock knows has been wrapped around his heart since the day he met John Watson squeezes just a little bit tighter at this show of wary trust. He’s just inches from John’s chest now and has to tuck his chin to his chest to keep eye contact. 

“What?” John sounds genuinely confused and his brows draw together in that way that creates a deep V at the top of his nose. 

Sherlock pauses and watches John’s face. He’s thought about this moment a lot, more and more over the years. It was always inevitable but it still freezes Sherlock’s gut with fear. But he’s never been a man to stop in the face of possible heartbreak. 

“There’s only one last adventure I can give you John.” He takes his time leaning forward and pressing his lips to John’s. They’re dry and hot and Sherlock’s eyes sink closed at the feeling. This is his last chance, the last moment where he could rewind the last five minutes and delete everything if John reacts badly. There’s a chance he’ll have to do that, so he will enjoy this one kiss for as long as he can. Like a condemned man’s last meal. 

John pulls back from the kiss, but instinctively clamps a hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck the instant the impulse to flee crosses Sherlock’s mind. “You stupid bastard. Stupid, stupid bastard. If you wanted this, you could have had it years ago.” 

Sherlock waves a hand haphazardly. “The time wasn’t right.” It’s the easiest way to dismiss over two decades of ignorance, fear, and longing. 

John pulls him forward and the second kiss is hard and far, far too quick. “And it’s right now?” John’s smiling and of course he would have fallen right in line with the last step of their relationship. How could Sherlock have doubted that? 

“Yes, obviously.” 

John ducks and shakes his head, silently laughed at Sherlock’s hubris. Sherlock gives in to an impulse he’s been fighting for more than twenty years and catches the corner of John’s smile with his lips. This kiss doesn’t stay short or sweet. John’s hand squeezes his neck and he tastes John’s tongue against his lips. It’s long moments before John pulls back again and Sherlock nearly whines as he chases that retreating mouth. 

“But, why now? Why this morning?” That deep V is back between John’s brows and Sherlock smooths it away with a fingertip. 

“There’s more than one way to get blood pumping through your veins.” It’s a clumsy innuendo and it feels foreign on Sherlock’s tongue, but John’s laughing and it’s better than the truth of _I couldn’t suffer without you for one more day_. 

He’s still laughing when he says, “You’re suggesting I fuck my way out of cabin fever?” 

The vulgarity sends a thrill down Sherlock’s spine. “I believe it is a tried and true method.” 

John kisses him again. This time it’s less exploration and more titillation, and it’s definitely having the desired effect on Sherlock’s anatomy. Sherlock’s arms are wound around John’s waist ( _When did they get there?_ ) and he rocks his erection against John’s hip. 

John breaks away with a groan, which is not at all what Sherlock intended. His lips are slick and red when he speaks. “There was a time, years ago, when I thought, maybe, you wanted me but…” John shakes his head, “I didn’t see it.” 

“I am very good at hiding my weaknesses.” Sherlock hates how wobbly his voice has gone. 

“Not from me you’re not.” John’s next kiss is slow and languid but, again, much too short for Sherlock’s liking. “I’ve loved you for ages. This will never be a weakness, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock absolutely cannot wait for John to initiate any more kisses or push this forward. So, instead, he pushes John. Quite literally pushes him toward the stairs. John takes his very obvious hint and turns to dart up the stairs. Sherlock follows him, taking the steps two at a time. 

Even with Sherlock’s longer legs and faster speed, John still manages to reach Sherlock’s bedroom first. He pounces as soon as Sherlock is through the door and pulls him into another hot and heavy kiss. 

Sherlock sweeps his tongue into John’s mouth and tastes his teeth. John pulls his shirt from his trousers ( _Thank God I never wear a belt._ ) and works the palms of his hands flat against Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock rocks into the heat of them even though it burns his skin and makes him sweat. He tries to push John’s cardigan from his shoulders before he’s actually unbuttoned it. 

John pulls back but Sherlock lunges forward with a growl and kisses him again. His hands are in John’s hair, holding him in place. It takes a strong push against Sherlock’s chest for John to break free. 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Clothes. Off. Now.” John’s voice is commanding, authoritative, but he looks wrecked. His hair is standing up in odd places, his jaw is reddened by the stubble Sherlock hadn’t yet shaved away, and his shirt hangs from his jeans. Sherlock’s cock throbs as he looks on what he’s done to John, at the evidence of John’s need for him. 

John’s already stripping with military efficiency. Sherlock’s trying to keep up but his fingers are shaky and clumsy. A growl rumbles from deep in his throat as he tugs on either side of his shirt, sending the buttons flying. 

“Fuck. Sherlock.” John is now down to just his pants ( _Deep blue. Matches his eyes._ ) and is staring at Sherlock. He realizes how he must look: trousers open, with black boxer-briefs peeking out, shirt hanging open, and jacket thrown to the floor. He must look positively feral to John.. The rest of Sherlock’s clothes hit the ground in record time. He’s naked now, lean frame and hard cock open for John’s inspection. 

That inspection must go well since John has him tossed on the bed, flat on his back, in under ten seconds. He shucks his pants before climbing on top of Sherlock and pressing them together from knees to lips. 

Sherlock’s never liked the feeling of being pinned down, literally or metaphorically, but having John’s hips against his, John’s chest weighing him down, and their fingers tangled together above Sherlock’s head doesn’t feel like being pinned. It feels like being secured, like being anchored. It gives Sherlock something to push against, to thrust into, and he’s always liked a little opposition. 

John sucks and licks and worries the skin where Sherlock’s neck meets his shoulder. John’s tongue and teeth make it impossible for Sherlock to keep his hips still even if he had wanted to. John rolls his hips down to meet Sherlock’s thrusts. He lets John suck what he’s sure will be a deep purple mark against his collar bone before using his chin to nudge John’s mouth back to his. They kiss and roll and rock together. 

His cock is becoming too sensitive, just shy of chaffed, when John sits up, dropping Sherlock’s hands. He locks his knees around Sherlock’s hips and holds their cocks together with both his hands. 

“This all right?” 

Sherlock struggles up to his elbows and twists toward the nightstand. “Wait.” He jerks open the drawer and fishes out a half-empty bottle of lube. Sherlock tosses it and John catches it easily with one hand, using the other to keep their cocks squeezed together. “Use this. You’re a grown man. Start acting like it.” 

“Don’t be rude. I could put my trousers on and leave, you know.” John undercuts his words by popping the bottle cap open. 

“You won’t.” 

“Of course I won’t. But I could.” 

The first glob of lube is cold and his cock jumps in John’s hand. John grips them in both hands and starts stroking. The cold shock of the lube is soon forgotten as they slide together. Sherlock cranes his neck to watch the heads of their cocks appear and disappear in John’s double-handed fist. He watches but he’s more interested in the sounds John is making: small breathy moans that are picking up in speed. 

Sherlock digs his fingers into the back of John’s thighs and rocks his hips in time with John’s strokes. John has been watching his own hands as well, seemingly mesmerized by the sight of his cock pressed to Sherlock’s. His moans are louder now, and faster. He finally looks up to Sherlock’s eyes. 

“I’m going to… going to come, Sherlock. Going to come all over you.” John drops Sherlock’s cock, where it makes a wet thump against his stomach, and strokes his own cock hard and fast. It’s only a few seconds before John’s groaning out his name and the first hot splatter of come lands in the vicinity of Sherlock’s belly button. John guides his cock so the rest coats Sherlock’s erection from root to tip, with the final spurt covering the head. 

Some things slot into place about John Watson in that moment ( _Possessive lover but not prone to jealousy. Enjoys marking and claiming his lover in a variety of ways. Isn’t afraid to try something he’s not sure how his lover would react to._ ). 

He could keep going, keep deducing, except John takes his cock back in hand at that moment. He tugs and squeezes, rubbing his come into Sherlock’s skin, while Sherlock arches up into his grasp. His mind wanders to what John may do to him next time and he comes silently into John’s hand with images of John’s cock painting white stripes across his lips and cheeks. Or maybe John will come across the curve of Sherlock’s arse. John’s murmuring “Mine. Finally mine.” against Sherlock’s chest as his cock gives its last twitches. They have all the time in the world to do everything they’ve ever wanted now. 

John collapses next to him and presses his face against Sherlock’s neck. He’s still breathing heavily and his fingers skim swirling patterns through the come on Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock closes his eyes and wills his own heart rate back to normal. 

John’s voice cuts through Sherlock’s half-hearted attempt to deduce more about John’s sexual preferences. “So you and I, we’re our own last adventure then?” 

“Weren’t we always?” 

He can feel John’s chuckle vibrate against his jaw as John presses a gentle kiss there. “Yeah, I guess so.” 

They stay quiet for a few moments, then John begins to rise from the bed. Sherlock’s arms shoot out to hold him in place. “No. Stay.” 

“We need to clean up.” 

Sherlock snags a corner of the sheet and wipes haphazardly at his stomach. “There. We’ve cleaned up. Now stay.” 

John settles back down and Sherlock goes back to basking in the afterglow of finally having John Watson in his bed. He’s mentally reorganizing his wardrobe to fit John’s clothes when he notices John has dozed off. He pulls him closer and kisses the ( _thinner, greyer_ ) hair on the top of John’s head before drifting off to sleep. 


End file.
